


Take My Hand, We'll Make It, I Swear

by jojothecr



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, First Time, M/M, written in 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2048322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jojothecr/pseuds/jojothecr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared's pre-bachelor party. Vancouver.<br/><em>“I'm starting to think that... maybe it's not enough, you know? That... maybe there should be more.” ... "What more would you want? Heart racing and... butterflies in your stomach? The sudden urge to draw your initials on a fogged up window?”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Take My Hand, We'll Make It, I Swear

Jensen's fingers settle on the strings of his guitar, light, but firm at the same time, finding notes he's known for years and a melody that has been stuck on his mind for weeks, insistent, and haunting like a faded memory. His lips form words he's learned through Jared, through his constant off-key singing, misplaced lyrics and tattered rhymes.

He remembers teaching him how to play it, leading long, tanned fingers over taut strings and polished wood. Singing, whispering words of love and hope and promises, and hiding behind Jovi's score, behind soft, dark hair that kept falling over his face He recalls the heat of the body beside him, all the firm, unyielding inches pressed to his side, his thigh, so real and tempting, absurdly, unhealthily close, the sweet smell of chocolate on his breath...

Jensen looks up from the strings, meeting Jared's eyes from across the room, strangely shaded and quiet, remote. There's a glass of Jack in Jared's hand, ice long melted, the drink thinned down, and sadness on his lips that doesn't belong there. Not today. Not now, when he should be drunk and happy, too loud and too clingy, too much of everything and completely himself. He should be singing with Jensen, his favorite song, his _wedding_ song, celebrating his soon ending bachelorhood and the fact he's found the one, but he's not. Instead, he's sitting on an empty apple box, far from his cheery friends and the crew, endless legs in washed-out denim stretched in front of him and a paint-peeled wall behind his head. Wrapped in silence like inside of a safe, soundproof cocoon. He's watching Jensen, his hands as they move, his lips, his look intent, open, saying so much and nothing at all, seeing seemingly deeper and more than Jensen would ever want him to.

_… We're half way there,_  
livin' on a prayer,  
take my hand and we'll make it... 

Jared stands up then, quickly, jerkily as if he just cannot sit there still for a second more, a large shadow stretching over the floor and reaching the tips of Jensen's sneakers. He puts his glass on a nearby window ledge, a single drop of condensation sliding down the side, and walks out of the room, without a word, without a glance back.

The next two words of the lyrics fall into the air unheard, unvoiced, Jensen forgets them. His fingers stutter on the strings, lose their path, let go.

 

The early February night is wan, almost white; ragged clouds, and a crescent of the moon like a permanent scar etched in battles eons ago. The air is cold, wet with a taste of ice, the snow like spilled vanilla sugar.

Jared is barely more than a shadow here, a dark silhouette on a canvas of snow-covered pines and firs, and bare fields that stretch on the horizon. There's a thin ribbon of gray smoke rising towards the sky, the tell-tale sweet smell of weed. Jared is leaning against the wooden railing of the cabin, bare elbows and bowed head, his back turned to Jensen.

“I don't think I can do it,” he says, voice low, something fragile scratching its edges. He doesn't look up at Jensen, doesn't let him speak up, he just _knows_ it's him.

“What do you mean?” Jensen rests his back against the railing, damp and chilly, wraps his arms around himself to keep warm. It doesn't stop the cold from seeping through his clothes, though, thin T-shirt and Dean's worn Henley, doesn't stop the shudder surging down his spine.

“You know.” Jared shifts, turning just enough to look at Jensen sideways, opens his hand, offering his cigarette.

Jensen takes it, gingerly, afraid to touch, to even brush his fingers over Jared's, and draws the hot, toxic smoke into his lungs. It tastes sweet, and sticky. Dank.

“Yes, you can.” It comes out on a thick cloud of fume, dark gray and curling in the air, much more bitter and reserved that Jensen would want it to. He doesn't want to be mean, not to Jared, but the tiredness is set in his bones, all the pretense heavy in his stomach, on his tongue. Names and faces come and go, first dates, last dates, engagements and wedding plans... and still it’s there, poisoning, persistent, aching. Along with that stupid, naive, tiny, _tiny_ possibility that maybe... “You're just nervous, okay? That happens. And you've been thinking too much about it... But that is all. It'll be different in the morning. You'll see. All good... Again.”

Jared shakes his head, stubborn, insistent. “No.” He takes the joint from Jensen, warm fingers sliding over Jensen's skin like an accident, a promise.

Jensen breathes in the freezing air surrounding them, closes his eyes, willing it all away. Like always, every damn time. A while ago, years back, he thought it'd pass. Eventually. That one day, Jared's touch would be just one of many; random, innocent. Unimportant. He doesn't think that anymore.

“Why?” He opens his eyes again, finding Jared's beneath the feeble flare of the streetlamp, indescribable shade of greenish/bluish-brown.

“I don't know.” Jared shrugs, his lips curling around the tiny body of the cigarette, half smoked out, half burnt. He lets out a silver string of smoke, scratches on his eyebrow, unconsciously, distracted. “Things are just--” He pauses, like he's forgotten, looks Jensen up and down, slowly, like it should mean something, his gaze heavy, hot. Palpable. His eyes linger on Jensen's mouth, for a second, a beat too long, move away again. Jensen bites his lip, as if hypnotized, and Jared sighs, the sound strangely loud in the silence around them. He shakes his head, passes the cigarette on. It's almost gone now. “Suddenly more complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Just.” Jared watches Jensen pull in another drag, regards him through the smoke before his eyes.

Jensen breathes in, breathes out; the taste getting more familiar now, comfortably dimming. “Is it.. her? Or you?”

Jared reaches out, slender fingers and rough fingertips ghosting across Jensen's face, copying the shape of his lips, tracing the wrinkles at the corners. It's so intimate, so wrong. Completely casual. He smiles, tired, somewhat sad. “You look so worried.”

Jensen steps away from him, from that touch. From the heat, the pang of desire curling in his stomach. So weakening, so unfair. “Jare.” It's a plea. A warning.

Jared pulls back, a hint of emotion Jensen doesn't want to know running across his face, weak, just a shadow. “Both,” he says. But it sounds like a question someone else should know the answer to. He shakes his head then, sags heavily against the log wall. “It's... me. Just me.”

Jensen doesn't want to ask, he doesn't want to know. But friendship isn't always about wanting to. He draws in another gulp of the venom-tainted air, the last one, burns his thumb on the stub before he crushes it against the snow-powdered railing, takes a deep breath. “But why, what happened? I mean, you.. you love her, right? You say--” He trails off, the proper words refusing to come, foreign on his tongue, unwanted. _Amazing. Beautiful. Wonderful. So sexy. So smart. The_ one.

“Yeah.” Jared's voice isn't half as full of love as it's full of doubts, uncertainty. “Yeah, I... I love her, but...”

“But?”

“I'm starting to think that... maybe it's not enough, you know? That... maybe there should be more.”

“More?” Jensen can't help the bitterness-laced tone of his voice, the amusement in it. “You love her and she loves you... that's still more than most people get.”

“Right.” Jared nods, but he's not agreeing. “Right, but...”

“Right,” Jensen echoes as he turns around and props his elbows up onto the top log of the railing, his head automatically tilting backwards. There's a flickering light right above them, a pulsing red dot of an airplane marking its journey through the endless space up. So distant. So careless. “But you'd still want more.” He turns around again, looking up at Jared. “So what, huh? What more would you want? Heart racing and... butterflies in your stomach? The sudden urge to draw your initials on a fogged up window?”

“Yes.” Jared pulls from the wall, takes a step towards Jensen. He looks even taller than he is, strong, intimidating, still. “Yes, exactly.”

Jensen, inadvertently, takes a step back. “We're not thirteen, Jare. Things change, feelings change... Grown-up love is different.” _Colder. Reasonable. Cautious... Empty._

“But why?”

“Huh?”

Jared rests his hand on the railing, leans closer. His fingers brush Jensen's side, his warmth and smell invades Jensen's space, fogs up his senses. His proximity makes it hard to breathe, even harder to think. “Why should it be like that? Why should growing up mean reconciling with less? Concessions? Compromises?”

“Because... I don't know, because life's like that. I-I guess.”

“Well, I don't want it to be like that,” Jared replies, whisper-soft. He doesn't touch him, not the slightest contact, but he steps closer, guiding Jensen around, without words, just the movements of his body, just his gaze, traps him there, between the railing and his body. When he does speak up, voice thick, hot like chocolate, his tone is almost accusing, demanding. “I want heart racing,” he says as he leans down, soft hair falling over his eyes, feather-like tickle on Jensen's cheek. “I want butterflies.” He lets out a puff of air, shuddering and heavy like he's been holding his breath for weeks, starving to let it out, and it fans across Jensen's mouth, disconcerting, electrifying.

Jensen knows it's coming, he spent years waiting, _wishing_ it would, but he still can't help the startled intake of breath, the panicked _flee now_ jerk when Jared's lips brush his own. “N-no. What you're--” The words, so weak and unconvincing in their very core, barely leave his mouth when they die on Jared's, warm and soft, pliable.

A scrape of teeth, the scratch-caress of a stubble, gentle warmth of Jared's tongue, a quiet moan that is probably Jensen's own. Jared kisses like he does everything else, wholly. He's possessive and clamoring, giving it all, and stealing it right back. There's strength in his hands, long fingers that curl around Jensen's jawline, tilting his head the way he wants it, winding along his hip, dragging him closer, pressing him backward into the railing. Keeping him there, pinned between wood and the brick wall of his body, as if afraid he'd run. As if Jensen would. As if he _could_.

Jensen knows, somewhere deep down, beneath the fog of _yes_ and _don't stop_ and _Jesus_ , that he should stop it, that he should pull away, push Jared away, that this is probably the worst place for this, the worst time. That it doesn't make any sense, because Jared is taken, engaged. A married man in just a few days. But a part of him, the weak one, tired and broken, and betrayed by no one, by words and vows intended for someone else, doesn't care about these trifles. That part says _take it_. And for a moment, it actually feels good. Too good for something that is in fact forbidden.

It's seconds, maybe hours, maybe the time's stopped, before Jensen realizes that they really shouldn't be doing this, not now, not here, where anyone could walk out, at any time, and pushes Jared away. He doesn't want to, it almost physically hurts to pull away, shove Jared one or two steps back, but it's right. He's always done what's right. Because it's expected. Because it's _right_.

He opens his eyes, struggles to remember when he closed them in the first place, and just stares. His mouth is partly open, still feeling the heat of Jared's, the pressure of his tongue, bruised, his breath's escaping in short, quick rhythm. Jared is looking right back at him, equally breathless, his cheeks flushed, eyes hooded, their color even more peculiar than usual. His lips are swollen, toned to a darker shade of pink.

“Yeah,” he says. And it's not much of a word, just an exhale, really, but albeit faint and simple, it's enough to break the spell.

“No. _No_.” Jensen insists, his voice low, rough like he hasn't used it in a while. “This... is nothing.”

“Is it?” Jared asks, tilting his head a fraction to the side, regarding him, curious. “Nothing?”

Jensen closes his eyes, shakes his head. He turns around, spreads his palms upon the log and buries his fingers in the remaining layer of snow, trying to cool down. His heart is racing, there aren't butterflies, but frogs in his stomach, jumping up and down and around, and he thinks he's going to be sick. He's shaking, there are minute quivers wrecking his body, and it's not from cold. It's not the fucking, omnipresent snow.

Jared's fingers curling around his upper arm are tight, uncompromising. They spin him around, force him to face Jared. His questions and answers, his insecurity, anger. Hope. “You always kiss like this when it's nothing? C'mon, say it,” he demands. “Tell me that it's nothing.”

“It's nothing,” Jensen repeats. But even as he says it, he knows that Jared can tell he's lying. He always can.

“Liar.”

The word rolls over Jensen's mouth, playful and unaccusing, followed by Jared's lips, by another kiss that he really should be stopping. He's aware that he should fight it, again, that he should truly fight and win, but he's not. He's giving in and giving up, and he's not feeling guilty enough about it.

His lips part and open on a sigh, at the touch of Jared's tongue tracing the swell of his bottom lip, at the large hand, cold fingertips that slide beneath the hem of his shirt, guiding his hips closer to Jared's. It's too easy to fall, to forget. He can't remember the last time that kissing someone, just being close to them, their warmth and mere presence felt this good. So content. There were people, real, but insignificant, fillers. Just filling up the empty spaces – empty bed, empty chair, empty toothbrush cup. Cramming up gaps like plasticine, and stealing, wanting more. Always wanting more. Even Chris. Even when he'll never say a word.

Jensen puts his hand on Jared's chest, feels the hard bones, solid muscles beneath his touch, and the thunder of Jared's heart, rapid and harsh enough to break a few ribs. He curls his fingers in the front of Jared's t-shirt, perfectly new with the logo of _A &E_ proudly embroidered in the middle, keeping him in place, terrified that Jared will stop, pull away. That he'll finally realize the terrible mistake he's doing. But Jared only hums in agreement, a little, pleased sound pushed in between their lips, sweet at the tip of Jared's tongue, and presses closer, still, nudging a knee in between Jensen's thighs. There's hardness and heat, and Jensen shudders at the feeling, the unmistakable, eloquent strain of want. When Jared moves, rocking into him, the friction delicious and tormenting at once, he digs his fingernails into Jared's arm, clutching at the plaid of his shirt, begging for more. Everything. Anything. He bites Jared's lower lip, burning, bruised, tugging at the tender flesh gently, eliciting a shuddering moan. Jared's hand moves down his spine, fingernails traveling over each vertebra, slowly, tickling and arousing, and then slides into the back pocket of his jeans, squeezing. Jensen jerks, in surprise and arousal, and tears his mouth away from Jared, breaking the kiss on a gasp that escapes in between them, into the night. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah,” Jared echoes, his lips too-warm, smooth-moist, and perfect on Jensen's throat, on his collarbone. “Love the way you feel,” he murmurs. “How you taste. So good, Jens.”

“Jare--” Jensen's fingers tangle in Jared's hair, so ridiculously long and silken, somewhat undecided whether to push him away, or keep him in place. He's hitting all the right spots, the weakest ones, like he knows exactly just where they are, breaking goosebumps all over Jensen's skin, vibrating each molecule like a string, and Jensen's afraid that if he doesn't stop them soon, there'll be no stopping at all. “Jared, is-is that even you... Or-or the weed?”

Jared's breath, hot and still cannabis-sweet, fans over Jensen's ear. It's both a promise and a threat. “Just me.”

Jensen is melting so fast he might be a snowflake. When the terrace door opens a few moments later, a quiet creaking noise that sounds like a gunshot in the enclosing silence, followed by the tramping of heavy boots on wet wood, he's so far gone, he barely manages to open his eyes. When he meets Chris' gaze across the distance, he feels partly guilty, and mostly just relieved.

“Oh... _shit_!” Chris' exclamation flawlessly captures Jensen's own, unvoiced, but undoubtedly there, even Jared's frozen-on-the-spot rigid stillness. “Sorry.” _Sorry._ The second sorry, unspoken, that's for Jensen only. “Jared, you've... you've got a phone call. It's Gen.”

“Tell her you didn't find me.” Jared doesn't turn to look at Chris, he doesn't pull away or step from Jensen either, he just straightens up, his eyes fixed on Jensen.

“Jay, don't--”

“Tell her. Please.”

Chris leaves with a quiet, confused, “Okay,” and a meaningful wink in Jensen's direction.

Jensen watches the door bounce closed again, the gentle whiff of snow it lifts off the floor. “Jared.” He looks up again, meeting Jared's gaze, panicked and determined at once. Touching his hand to Jared's face, reddened and chilly, he strokes his thumb along his cheekbone. “Jared, what are you doing?”

“I dunno.” Jared sighs and leans closer, pressing his forehead against Jensen's, his hands move to Jensen's hips, squeezing tight. “Jensen, I don't know... I love you, that's all.... That's all I know. And I wanna be with you. _You_ are my butterflies. _You_ are my initials drawn on a fogged up window. You've always been, but I... I didn't know. I didn't realize. Not until--”

“Until when?”

“Until she said yes.” He steps away, pushing emptiness and cold where heat and safety was just seconds ago, and Jensen shudders at the sudden loss.

Jared runs a hand through his hair, paces the terrace, unsettled and jittery like a caged animal. “Ever since I'd told you that I was planning to propose to her, you'd been there for me. You had been caring and supportive, always there. You'd been happy... _for me_. But _you_ weren't. Were you?” He stops and looks at him, eyes sharp and deep, and so knowing. Jensen gazes back, nailed to the spot, drawn to Jared's stare, to the truth he thought he was hiding. “Your masks, they'd been cracking Jens, becoming so transparent. And every day, it was like watching you die on the inside a little bit. You tried so hard to be happy. But you couldn't be. Not really... Because you love me.” It doesn't sound like a question, Jared's voice doesn't make the curve up to the question mark at the end, not quite. But he's still waiting for an answer.

Jensen's stomach drops, his pulse speeding up, touching dangerous levels up around a heart attack. His knees feel weak suddenly, and he reaches blindly for the railing, struggling to regain his balance. It's like the ground was torn right from under his feet, even though he should have known. Jared's not stupid, and he's not blind. Other people noticed, why shouldn't he. “Jared, don't do this. Don't ruin your relationship because of some unimportant, fleeting thought. You're acting like this now, because you're nervous, but tomorrow--”

“Don't you?”

“Jare...”

Jared is quick when he moves, just two steps, three, before he stops in front of Jensen again, bigger than he's got the rights to be, hands clasped together and pressed to his mouth. Like a worshiper who doesn't believe. “Just answer the question, Jensen... Answer me.” He's not loud, his voice is barley higher than a whisper, but his tone is sharp, appealing. The tone wants only one answer; the truth.

“Yes.” It's just a breath, half-choked reality Jensen's been trying to hide and deny for way too long.

Jared lets out air through his teeth, his shoulders sink. It's like his whole face relaxes, softens. “Then why do you want me to marry someone else?”

The reply is so simple, so evident, Jensen wants to laugh. Only he doesn't. Because he can't. “Because I want you to be happy.”

Jared chuckles, opens his hands. “ _You_... make me happy.” Jensen forgets to shake with cold, every ounce of his attention zoomed at Jared, at the words that don't make any sense, but he desperately wants to believe anyway. “I spend nine months a year up here with you, through heat and snow and rain, and once we part for summer, I want you back. I'd take the cold and the mud, all the messed up lines and takes. Even the endless nights and early mornings... just to have you around again.” He touches Jensen's temple, runs his fingers through his short hair, flattened by cold and wetness, adjust a few strands like there's a point to it. “I messed it all up. I thought that maybe... if I tried hard enough, it'd be the same with her. But it's not. She's amazing and everything... But she's not you. She never will be, and I just can't pretend anymore.” He slides his thumb beneath Jensen's jawline, the touch tender and pleading at once, lifts his head up. “I love _you_.” His expression is so open, so vulnerable and hopeful, it's hard to focus at the reality.

Jensen closes his eyes, just for a moment, lets out a sigh. He reaches for Jared, fingers squeezing Jared's elbow, hard bones and soft cotton, the chill of his skin. He wants to forget, push her out of his thoughts and just believe, pretend, if only for a moment, that it can work, but she doesn't want to be forgotten. Not for a second. “Do-does she know? Any... of this?”

“I think she... suspects? She knows that something's wrong. That it's been for a while.”

“Talk to her. Jared... You can't just-- _I_ can't.” He lets go off him and steps away, moving past Jared and past the party, snow-soaked sneakers slipping on the stairs. Jared grabs his arm when he's almost down, halting him a mid-step. Jensen doesn't turn to look at him, he blinks, hot tears spilling, freezing on his cheeks.

“Is that... a _no_?” Jared sounds worried, so unsure. “Like... a final, official _no_?”

“It's a... _you're engaged_.” Jensen's voice is almost gone now, wrecked with cold, shredded with emotions, with all the _almost's_. “Unless that somehow miraculously, _reciprocally_ changes, it is a _no_.”

 

_Six days later_

The second Saturday of February rolls in with a canopy of impenetrable, lead-toned clouds. They hang above the streets like a menace, weighty and colored in all fifty shades of gray, threatening to collapse and suffocate the whole city in their depressive embrace.

Jensen watches the gloomy scenery over the brim of his cup, through the vapor rising from his coffee, trying to push away all the thoughts he doesn't want to think. Unsuccessfully.

The floor creaks behind him, newly-laid timbers reacting to the smallest pressure, and Chris walks in with a yawn. “Now that is a sight for sore eyes.”

Jensen smiles, a little, crooked smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Chris steps closer, smelling of tobacco and Jensen's lime shampoo, dripping water from his wet hair on Jensen's bare back. “Hey, you.” Dry lips pressed to Jensen's neck and a warm hand sliding down his side to settle on his hip, just above the line of his sweatpants. Light and non-possessive, but suggestive. It's nice, comforting in a way. There's still that ghost-shiver of arousal, goose flesh from a touch, but it's no longer enough, not _it_. The thrill is missing. The smell is different, too, familiar, but more of cigarettes and leather, and less of candy and dogs. Just another substitution.

There had never been any promises or agreements, nothing more or more serious, just fun, mutual desire and loneliness. But four years of this distorted friendship is still a lot. There's guilt, and there's _sorry_ Jensen knows Chris doesn't want to hear. But he says it anyway. “Chris. I'm sorry, I can't.”

There's a smile on his skin, an amused chuckle that tickles his ear, a kiss on his shoulder. “Well, they say that all good things must come to an end,” Chris notes as he stands up beside Jensen, watching the downcast Vancouver skyline, their elbows touching. “No need to apologize, man, I get it. I mean, you can have the real thing with Jared, would be stupid wasting your time and feelings elsewhere.” He nudges Jensen's shoulder with his own, humor lacing his tone. “Not that I didn't enjoy that kind of waste of time. With _you_.”

Jensen glances at him, smiles. Briefly. “Me too.”

“By the way, why don't you call him?”

“And tell him what?” Jensen moves from the window, tired of the grayness behind it, by the quick rhythm of the traffic below. He pulls himself up onto the bar stool and sighs, dropping his head onto the table.

“That you love him. That you want him.”

“Because he doesn't know that already.”

Chris sits down at the table across from Jensen and picks up his coffee, too-sweet for Jensen's taste and undoubtedly cold by now. “Well, maybe he just needs a little-- ” He picks up an orange from the fruit basket hanging above the table and rolls it across the sleek desk towards Jensen. It hits his chin. “--nudge.”

Jensen picks up the round fruit, so orange it cannot be natural, and shakes his head.

Chris kicks his chair under the table. “C'mon, Jensen, we had sex for... how long – four years?”

Almost four, Jensen remembers it well. They weren't drunk, just lonely. Somehow, the sound of a guitar has the tendency to do it. It mixes up feelings, surroundings and words sung just above whisper, and reaches deeper, enough to hurt. Sometime during the night, Jensen caught Chris' eyes and when Chris moved closer and their lips touched, he didn't push him away. It started simple, but it wasn't, not quite.

“And all this time, you wanted it to be Jared. And now, when it _can_ be Jared, when you actually have the chance to _be_ with him and have the _real_ thing, you're backing off? Jesus Christ, why?”

Jensen stares at him for a moment, then shrugs, he doesn't really know. There are so many things, so many reasons, stupid and actually important. But there's fear, uncertainty winning above all.

“You don't believe him,” Chris intuits. It sounds both like a reproach, and pity.

“I want to.”

“That's not much.”

“I'm just...”

“Scared.” Jensen doesn't need to reply, Chris already knows. “But what exactly are you so scared of?”

The _nothing_ is at the tip of Jensen's tongue, so simple and full of lies, but he knows that Chris won't buy it, that he won't stop pushing until Jensen breaks anyway. “I'm scared that he's making a mistake. And that when he realizes he is, it'll be too late.. I'm scared that he'll hate me, because I didn't stop him. Most of all, I'm... I'm scared that it's just a phase. A phase that'll pass. Soon.” He stands up again and picks up his coffee cup, still half full, but lukewarm. He pours it into the sink, turns around to face Chris and rests his hands on the kitchen desk, defeated, and hoping he'll understand. “I cannot be just a phase. Not for him.” It'd hurt too damn much. It'd ruin them.

“And you don't think that even a phase would be worth it?”

Jensen doesn't have the chance to answer, startled by the knock on his door, quiet, but resolute, completely unexpected at this hour. He looks at the door, back at Chris, nervous for no obvious reason.

“Ah, speak of the devil.”

“No.”

“What do you mean 'no'? Go open it.”

Jensen looks down at himself; bare chest and bare feet, ratty, loose track pants that have seen better days, many of them, runs his hand over his chin, unshaven for two days too many. “Like this?”

Chris looks him up and down critically, a little too slow, too obvious, left eyebrow quirked up in contemplation. Eventually, he nods. “You're right. Take off your pants.”

“Asshole.”

Chris heaves a sigh, exasperated and over-acted, and stands up, rolling his eyes. “Fiiine, I'll open the door, you go put something on... You're such a prude.”

 

It's barely two minutes later, Jensen's got his jeans on, but unbuttoned, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, when he catches a movement in the mirror behind him.

Jared rasps his fingernails on the door frame, hesitates in the door. “Chris sent me in.”

“Of course he did.”

Jared smiles, that kind that makes him look ten years younger, almost innocent, and moves forward, holding Jensen's gaze in the mirror.

His cheeks are toned to wind-beaten pink, there are drops of water trickling down his temples, snowflakes melting in his hair. His eyes got the morning color of hazel nuts, a little more green than brown, worries wrinkle his forehead.

He steps behind Jensen, oozing cold and the smell of snow, and the same nervousness that Jensen feels. His touch is light, suggestion rather than real contact, as he traces the tail of Jensen's shirt, his voice a warm poison in Jensen's ear, thick like melted caramel. He says, “Hey”, but it sounds like something else, something a lot dirtier.

“Hey.” Jensen's nearly breathless when he answers, body taut, keyed up by something that might never come.

But Jared's eyes, darker now, so focused and intense, and his fingers sliding down Jensen's torso, over his ribs and stomach and lower, they don't say, 'goodbye' and 'sorry, it was just a game, just a moment that passed'. They say something completely different.

Jensen puts his palm on Jared's, stopping its voyage over the front of his jeans. Jared's skin is smooth, fine hairs and protruding knuckles, and no metal. He looks down to see, and Jared moves his fingers in understanding. His skin is olive, tanned still, but there's a white line on his ring finger, where his engagement ring was, just yesterday.

“I talked to her.”

“How... did it go?”

“Well, we've... We sure had better conversations in the past,” he admits softly. He shifts his hand, fingers splayed over Jensen's belly possessively, guiding him backward, into the body behind him. There's undeniable hardness pressing into Jensen's lower back, and a quiet noise slipping past his lips that sounds suspiciously like a moan. Then, everything's gone. Jared steps away with a sigh and sits down at the wooden chest in the foot of Jensen's bed heavily. It was Danneel's, once, but she never found the right spot for it in her own apartment.

“How is she?”

“You know, I... I think she's good, actually. Better than I feared. Disappointed. But okay.”

Jensen nods, relieved. Break up is a one thing, a called off wedding, engagement that doesn't last, that's a whole new level of wrong that Jared doesn't need. “And... you?”

“Me?” Jared looks genuinely surprised by that question. He looks up, looks around, then back at Jensen. “I'm just hoping that it's not too late.” He stands up and breaks the distance in between them, eyes glued to Jensen's, so serious, pleading. He reaches for Jensen, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt, still unbuttoned, tugging him closer. It's more of a request than demand, and Jensen stumbles forward a little too voluntarily. “That... even if you don't believe me – and lord knows, given my previous relationships, you've got every reason to doubt me, doubt every word I say – you're not gonna give up on this. On us. That we're still worth trying.”

There's a strand of hair falling over his eye, damp from snow, and Jensen can't help pushing it away and tugging it behind his ear. It's something he's done a hundred times before, but he doesn't think he's ever put that much gentleness into the simple gesture, doesn't think that his hand ever lingered for more than a second. Jared's also never leaned into his touch like he's doing now.

“Someone told me once... that life is easier to live when you come to regret things you did than the ones you didn't do.”

“Smart guy.”

“Yes,” Jensen confirms with a smile. “And very drunk at the time, too.”

“Hey, I was entitled! It was my birth--” He pauses then, abruptly, an adorable confused wrinkle etched in between his eyebrows. “Wait, is that... a _yes_?”

“Yes. Just... no promises, okay? No gestures. No announcements. Just you and me. At least for the first...” _Months_. “Weeks.” _If we ever make it that far_.

Jared nods, serious, relieved, taking it all in. Then, a little grin spreads across his mouth, underlines his dimples. “I guess that includes no groping in public?”

Jensen's chuckle is surprising even to his own ears; it sounds happy, real, like it hasn’t been in quite a while. “Just... no more than the usual, okay?”

Laughing, Jared slides his hand into Jensen's hair, cupping the back of his head, strokes his thumb along his jawline. “Okay.”

 

The kiss tastes like a promise anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Title & Lyrics from Bon Jovi / [dividers](http://stephanie-thejourney.blogspot.cz/2013/07/rhythm-and-music-note-introduction.html)


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